To kill, to die, to live
by Arienhod
Summary: All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage. Molly Hooper learned that lesson too late. Because by that time six months have passed since Sherlock was exiled. And Mycroft is never wrong.
1. Chapter 1: To kill

**Warning: attempted suicide.**

* * *

Mycroft Holmes lowered his head and squeezed his mothers hand. Seconds later she returned the pressure and sniffed. She stood between her husband and older son attending one event she never wanted to witness.

Her younger son's funeral.

Last time she wasn't present. Last time she was among the few who knew the truth, who knew Sherlock was still alive and didn't die in the fall. But today she wasn't so fortunate. Her son was dead.

Six months ago it happened. Christmas. She was so happy to have both of her boys home again for the holidays, even happier that at least one of her sons had friends joining them since it never happened before.

She remembered feeling dizzy and sitting down before everything went dark. Today she wished she never woke up.

Her son was dead.

John Watson stood next to his wife, with bowed head, his hand gripping hers tightly. Their little daughter was home with a neighbor who agreed to keep an eye on her for few hours.

John couldn't believe this was happening again. He was burying his friend once more. And this time there was no secret plan he didn't know about, no inflatable landing pad to cushion Sherlock's fall. There was no hope.

A sob came from the older lady that was like a mother to them for several years while they lived in Baker Street together.

Martha Hudson was holding a handkerchief in front of her mouth to muffle the sounds of grief but in vain. He was gone.

The boy she loved like a son was gone, died in a foreign land, and wasn't coming back ever again. She would willingly be startled every single evening like she was that night months ago when he appeared at 221B and made her scream. She would put up with him shooting more holes in her walls and playing the violin at oddest times. She would ignore the body parts in the fridge and would gladly bring him tea and biscuits when he shouted.

But the flat on the floor will be empty once more. And once more she will leave it exactly as it is for she couldn't stand the idea of someone else inhabiting his space.

Detective inspector on her side offered his hand to support her and she gratefully accepted.

Greg Lestrade stood in attention in front of the dark brown casket with a large bouquet of white carnations and red roses on the lid. It wasn't a first time he attended a funeral of a friend, he lost several friends he knew since their academy days, but it was difficult every single time.

He met with loss every single day and witnessed the pain those who are left behind to mourn feel. With time it stopped affecting him too much. But it's always different when it's someone you knew.

When it's someone you call a friend.

Anderson stood silently behind him. He didn't attend Sherlock's funeral four years ago. He still abhorred the consulting detective back then. It's strange how guild changes people.

Unknown individuals stood all around them, familiar perhaps only to John who followed Sherlock during his cases and met the strangest people. Henry Knight was among them, as were the graffiti artist Raz, Bill Wiggins and the guardsman Stephen Bainbridge whose life John and Sherlock saved.

But one person was suspiciously absent.

It was Mycroft who noticed that someone who obviously cared for his brother wasn't present. And he wasn't sure how to feel about that. On one hand he didn't have the reason to question the reasons behind the absence and on the other he was aware she was the reason he brother managed to trick Moriarty and survive.

He didn't like admitting it but he felt certain obligation towards Molly Hooper.

That was why he, after making sure his parents are safely in the car that would drive them to his residence where they would stay for few days, he took a cab and told the driver the address that would take him to doctor Hooper's flat.

* * *

He knocked on the door but received no response. The sound of footsteps coming from the other side was an indicator that Barts most competent pathologist was in fact home and not on her workplace in the morgue.

Ignoring all good manners he possessed Mycroft checked if the door was unlocked. If necessary he was willing and capable to pick the lock, but it was unnecessary this time since the door opened with ease.

He entered the flat and looked closely around the sitting room. It were the little details that caught his attention and told him the most about the woman who lived there. The books he expected to see but not a small white statue of a Greek goddess that kept them company on the bookshelf. Or a reproduction of van Gogh's 'Starry Night over St. Remy' that hung over the mantle.

Or several boxes that were lined left of the front doors.

"Miss Hooper?" he focused on a woman standing in front of the window and looking outside.

She was dressed in a modest black skirt and black blouse, a purse that went with the ensemble was dangling in her right hand.

"I couldn't go." She finally spoke, "I got ready and everything and couldn't get myself to leave the flat. I just… I couldn't… It was better for everyone that I wasn't present."

Mycroft frowned. He believed her absence was because of grief but he suspected something else was going on here. So he took a seat on a colorful and rather comfortable couch. He didn't say a word as Molly threw her black purse on the armchair next to her and started to pace the room.

"He would have liked if you attended." Mycroft tested the waters.

A snort coming from the visibly agitated pathologist served as a sign she disagreed.

Suddenly she stopped and turned to face the older Holmes brother. He was taken aback by the sight of the grief in her eyes mixed with anger he didn't understand.

"Liked? Sherlock wouldn't care! He never cared!" she snapped, "It's been six years now since we first met, almost seven. In all those years only time he was kind to me was the night before the fall, the night he told me he needed my help. He told me I counted and that he trusts me."

"That is a lot coming from Sherlock." Mycroft told her. It was the truth; his brother rarely admitted to people they were important to him.

"You are missing the point!" Molly shouted.

"Then explain it to me." her visitor requested calmly.

As she attempted to find the right words Molly started to sob slightly and had to sit down in the armchair. She threw the bag on the floor and pulled her feet up, wrapping her arms around her knees.

"It's not a secret I love him. I would say 'loved' but that wouldn't be correct because I still feel the same. I probably always will." Molly's voice wavered a bit and Mycroft leaned forward to hear her better, "I can't even begin to describe how I felt after he returned. When he told me it was all possible because Moriarty made a mistake. Because he believed I didn't matter to Sherlock when in fact I mattered the most. It was in that moment that I knew I was only fooling myself when I thought I moved on from him. I never have. I never will."

"So you decided to stay home today because-"

"Because if I went to the funeral I would have made a scene." Molly said honestly before shrugging, "The casket is empty anyway."

Mycroft wasn't sure what to think about the first statement that came out of the mouth of the normally calm and collected pathologist so he confirmed her statement about Sherlock body not being laid down to rest, "His death was confirmed through official channels. But we still haven't managed to recover his body. So yes, the casket was empty once more."

"I saw them have dinner with some friends few days before we got the news Sherlock was killed." Molly said bitterly, "John and Mary. They were in a restaurant near Barts, laughing and generally having a great time. They knew the six months were almost up, they knew Sherlock could be killed in the next several days and yet-"

"Did you expect them to stay at home and grieve in advance, to lock themselves from everyone? What Sherlock did… he did it so they could continue to live normally."

Molly jumped to her feet, "But why?! Why?"

Mycroft watched as she started to cry silently.

He stood up, took a box of paper tissue from the side table and approached the grieving woman. She took a single napkin and wiped her eyes before focusing on him.

"I understand what you are trying to say." He said calmly, "But at the same time I don't."

Molly choked another sob before she sat back down in the armchair and leaned forward, looking down on her feet in shame, "I'm jealous. That's what it comes down to. I'm jealous that Sherlock was willing to die for John Watson, and to kill for him and Mary… I know it was Mary who did it. I'm not an idiot…"

"No one is saying that you are, doctor Hooper." Mycroft said taking a seat back on the couch opposite of the distressed woman.

She laughed weakly, "I have a hard time finding the right words."

"Take your time."

Molly nodded and took a deep breath, "If I was at the funeral today I would have probably snapped at John. I know it's irrational and stupid and petty of me but he was there… he knew by then Sherlock was willing to do drastic things to protect him and yet he didn't prevent him from killing Magnussen. And if he did then this wouldn't have happened. Sherlock wouldn't be dead. But he is. And now John can happily continue with his life like nothing happened and raise his daughter with Mary and all because he had Sherlock to fix things for him. To sacrifice himself once more."

"Do you truly believe John Watson will continue living like nothing happened?"

Molly shook her head, "No. But that doesn't make me any less angry because he will eventually move on… and I never will."

Before he left her flat that evening Mycroft left Molly his cell phone number with clear instructions to contact him when ever she feels the need to, day or night. It doesn't matter what time it is, if she needs someone to talk to he will be willing to listen.

* * *

First time Molly texted Mycroft he was in his office, listening to Anthea informing him about the upcoming meeting he needs to attend. His phone chipped and his assistant instantly stopped talking.

After checking his message Mycroft instructed her to continue, but not giving her any information as to why he smiled slightly after reading the text. He didn't spoke with anyone about the conversation he had with Molly Hooper after Sherlock's funeral, so no one would understand anyway why he was pleased that she informed him she started to see a psychologist in hope he'll help her deal with depression.

* * *

Second time she contacts him it's early in the morning and he's on his was to the Diogenes Club.

He is pleased, of course, that she contacted him and they talk for few minutes. Molly seemed really cheerful over the phone as she spoke about her article getting published.

Few days later they bumped into each other on a crime scene, of all places. Molly was there on Lestrade's request, he wanted her to make sure they collected all body parts of a man that had the misfortune of being killed and dismembered. Mycroft was there because the victim was an agent of some sort of. The older Holmes brother was very vague on the details.

He and Molly talked briefly before she returned to the task on hand and he stayed for few more minutes, silently observing the changes about the pathologist. Most pronounced change were her clothes. First thing he deduced when he initially met doctor Hooper that Christmas night many years ago was that she preferred lively colors and bold patterns. Both were absent from her current wardrobe. She wore black slacks and an indigo colored jumper underneath a black jacket.

Molly Hooper still grieved, still struggled, and it was obvious to those who bothered to look.

* * *

Next time he received a text from her it was in the middle of the night. The message was short.

_Thank you for giving me your number. – MH_

Mycroft blinked few times before responding with a question.

_Why? – M. Holmes_

An answer came few minutes later.

_Because now I have someone to say goodbye to. –MH_

Before he managed to type anything another message arrived. This one containing only one word.

_Goodbye – MH_

Mycroft jumped out of bed and used speed dial to call Anthea. She lived less then 10 minutes away from Molly Hooper and would be there much sooner then he would. It's been a long time ago since he felt this kind of panic. He couldn't allow that the woman who saved his brother cause harm to herself and he was quite certain that was exactly what she was planning to do.

A car was already waiting in front of his old Victorian house, the driver sent by Anthea no doubt. With the roads mostly deserted at this time of the night it took only half an hour to reach the building where Molly Hooper lived. And when he did he could see an ambulance parked in front of it and a stretcher being wheeled into the street, a prone figure lying on top.

Mycroft exited a car and approached Anthea who was standing aside, watching everything silently.

"Sir." She greeted him when he stopped next to her.

"What happened?"

"Overdose." She answered bluntly, "There was an empty prescription bottle of antidepressants on the bed next to Miss Hooper. She tried to kill herself."

"Tried?" Mycroft saw a small ray of light.

"I got there in time. Miss Hooper is still alive but unconscious. I heard them reviving her on one point before they placed her on the stretcher. It took them few minutes to bring her back."

"Do you know which hospital they are taking her to?"

"Saint Bartholomew."

* * *

Four months after that Molly Hooper was transferred into a facility for long-term coma patients.

She didn't have many visitors. The Watsons came once but left really fast after Mary started to cry. Greg Lestrade visited with Mrs. Hudson but neither of them came often, the sight of once cheerful woman now so unresponsive saddened them and made them both regret for not contacting her more often after Sherlock's death.

Mycroft came often, one time in the company of his parents. His mother wanted to thank the woman who years ago saved her younger son's life but never did. And now it seemed too late.

It was during one of those visits from the older Holmes brother, who mostly spent visiting hours reading his reports to Molly, that the sound of commotion outside made him snap the file shut and stand up. The facility had basic security and they were good at their jobs but who ever was shouting outside was making it rather difficult for them.

He was about to move and walk out in the hallway to see what was going on when the room doors opened and a stranger walked in.

Only the man wasn't a stranger.

It was the eyes he recognized. His brother's eyes. Everything else looked wrong.

The fact Sherlock was standing in front of him was wrong. It was confirmed Sherlock died. But still he was right there, in Molly Hooper's room, watching the small woman on the bed with so much sorrow in his eyes face Mycroft instantly remembered the little boy who was informed his loyal friend and companion in countless adventures was sick and had to be put down so he wouldn't suffer too much.

He lost a treasured friend that day.

And he knew he was close to losing another one.

Mycroft watched this stranger that was his brother, noticed the signs Sherlock fought against the six months prediction. He had a scar on his yaw, right below his left ear. Bandage was visible under the sleeve on his right hand. There was a slight limp in his gait as he approached the bed.

The doors opened and an orderly stepped inside.

"It's alright." Mycroft calmed him before he hauled Sherlock outside, "He's her friend."

At those words Sherlock looked directly at his brother like he was seeing him for the first time. Moments later he closed his eyes and bowed his head. That word hurt him. Friend. He was no friend.

But still he approached closer till he was standing opposite of Mycroft with the bed between them. He knew he had a lot to explain, starting with how he survived, where he was for the past couple of months and how he managed to get back to England when he was exiled. But all that had to wait.

Right now he needed to do something else.

He wiped his dirty hand to equally dirty jeans before reaching for Molly's small hand. It was icy cold and Sherlock took a deep breath to calm himself down.

In the past years he killed and died for John Watson.

Now he hoped he will get a chance to tell Molly that from this day forward he would live… for her.


	2. Epilogue 1: To die

WARNING: PREPARE YOUR TISSUES AND SHOCK BLANKETS! CHARACTERS DEATH!

Fluffy alternative ending epilogue will follow in few days.

* * *

**Epilogue 1: To die**

The constant ringing made John Watson groan and mumble a curse under his breath. He just managed to fall asleep minutes ago after being awake for what feel like hours due to Alice decided to be fussy and keep her parents from rest they needed to function properly.

He felt around his bedside table for the offensive item that caused too much noise and almost knocked a lamp over. That would most likely wake Mary up. Mary who was lying on her side away from her husband and contently sleeping, unaware of John's struggle to find his phone.

Eventually he grasped it and squinted at the illuminated screen that seemed far too bright. He couldn't properly see the name on the screen so he just answered.

"_She's gone… she's gone, John…"_ deep voice said before he managed to utter a single word.

"What?" John asked not comprehending what was going on.

"_My Molly… she left me…"_

John frowned when the call disconnected but didn't bother to call back. He simply placed the phone back on the night table and covered himself over the head with the thick cover.

It was little after 7 in the morning when John Watson woke up, well rested and ready to face what ever the world had to throw at him. Briefly he looked at his phone, as he tried to remember if he really answered it in the middle of the night, but shrugged it off as just a strange dream.

It was only an hour later, after he showered and had breakfast, that he mentioned it to Mary.

"John, your phone did ring during the night." She said with a frown, "I heard it but I couldn't get myself to even open my eyes."

"Oh…" a worried expression on John's face made her concerned.

"What's wrong? Who was it that called? What did they say?"

"He said… I think he said 'my Molly is gone'." He answered and then stood up suddenly and rushed out of the room.

"John?" Mary called after him as he all but ran to the bedroom to retrieve his cell phone.

When he returned he walked slowly in the sitting room, his eyes glued to the screen of the small device, before he lifted them and looked at his wife. She could see tears forming and approaching him carefully.

"It was him." He muttered.

"John?"

"The caller… it was Sherlock."

* * *

Mycroft was sitting in his brother's leather armchair and checking the message in his phone when John and Mary Watson entered the flat. He ignored the retired army doctor and his wife, while he reread the last message Molly Hooper sent him that night when she overdosed. That short 'goodbye' hurt more then he was willing to admit to anyone, even himself.

"What's going on?" John spoke after realizing he wasn't going to get any explanation from the older Holmes brother without asking questions, "I got a call from Sherlock during the night? How is that possible? You said-"

"I underestimated my brother's resourcefulness and the vast amount of allies he made while dismantling Moriarty's network."

"So he's still alive?" Mary asked and the little girl in her arms giggled.

"Where is he?" John added a question.

Mycroft placed his phone in the pocket and stood up, "He's in his bedroom. Packing."

"Packing? Where the hell is he going?! Where are you sending him this time?! Isn't exiling him once enough?! You are seriously trying to kill him!" John right away started to yell and only calmed when Mary placed a hand on her shoulder.

He looked at his wife and noticed their little daughter didn't react too well to him raising his voice. Luckily Mary managed to calm her down before she started to cry, something Mycroft was extremely grateful for. He wasn't really fond of crying infants, all that screaming and mucus.

"My brother's exile ended when he died." Mycroft spoke calmly, "But he didn't really die. And therefore the exile is still effective."

"So you are sending him on another suicide mission? Or just sending him away permanently." John's voice may have sounded calm but he was everything but.

"No. He will be allowed to return after five years." Mycroft answered before his brother stepped through the kitchen entrance into the sitting room and in the sight of his best friend.

"Sherlock…" John started to speak but stopped upon seeing how unhealthy his friend looked. He appeared to be ragged, tired. Like he hadn't slept in a week and ate in two.

"Scott." Sherlock said and John frowned. Mycroft merely lowered his head. He understood.

"What?" John asked with a frown.

"I thought you would come last night." Sherlock suddenly said, ignoring John's question, "You always came before."

Mycroft was the only one who noticed the hurt in his brother's eyes. He knew Sherlock truly believed John Watson would come to see him the moment he learned his friend was alive and that Molly was dead.

"I was barely awake when you called. I thought it was just a dream." John explained before asking, "Did you really said-"

"Molly died during the night, John. She died while I held her hand. She never learned I was still alive, that I was right there."

Neither John nor Mary knew what to say to that. They both suspected it was grief and depression caused by Sherlock's death that led the always cheerful pathologist to try and take her own life. And now they learned she succeeded.

Mary took a deep breath before muttering, "I'm sorry."

* * *

Sherlock wasn't at the funeral. Instead he chose to come after everyone already left the silent graveyard. He wanted to say his goodbye in peace, without anyone gawking at him. Without anyone questioning how he was still alive.

Only the stone angels saw him place a single rose on her grave. Only the stone angels saw him sink to his knees and cover his face as he wept.

Only the stone angels saw Sherlock Holmes break at the grave of the woman who mattered the most.

* * *

John was the only one who came to see him off the day he got send away again to live under house arrest in a cottage in East Dean in Sussex.

The retired army doctor didn't understand why he had to leave again, why he chose to leave again.

"You could just stay in Baker Street." He said as he followed Sherlock down the stairs, "Solve cases from your sitting room, just as you did before. Not going 80 miles away from London. Sherlock, are you listening to me?"

"Scott." Sherlock muttered as he opened the door and stepped out on the street. The car was already waiting for him.

"What?" John asked, confused by that comment just as he was days ago when Sherlock first time said his middle name for no apparent reason.

"My name is Scott. Scott Holmes." John's eyes widened at that statement, "William Holmes died the day Redbeard did. Sherlock Holmes followed the night Molly's heart stopped beating."

"Why are you doing that?"

A sad smile speared on Sherlock's face, "It's the only way I know how."

* * *

He was always interested in bees and imagined keeping them once he got tired of living in London and chasing criminals. When that retirement came sooner then expected Sherlock decided to spend the free time, he now had far too much, surrounded by beehives and making honey.

He sent the first jar to John and Mary for their wedding anniversary. They smiled sadly as they saw the small hand-made label.

Second was sent to his parents. Mr. and Mrs. Holmes were glad their son was alive but saddened because they knew he suffered with the loss of his friend.

Third arrived at Mycroft's address. He took a deep breath upon seeing how his brother named it and placed the glass jar on the kitchen counter never to be opened.

Mrs. Hudson received the forth one. Instantly she took a napkin out of her pocket and wiped the tears from her eyes.

Greg Lestrade received the fifth one in a package with his name written correctly. He took it with him when he went to work the next day and displayed it proudly in his office like it was his most precious award.

Sixth traveled the longest and eventually reached the old man that months ago saved Sherlock's life and kept him safe until he was healthy enough to return to England. It was the only way he knew how to thank Sherlock for avenging his son's death by killing one of Moriarty's men that terrorized the small town. When he received the jar of honey he was surprised until he read the name on the label. It was a name his guest mentioned many times, always with a small smile.

The seventh jar, the last one of the first batch, man who was now Scott Holmes kept for himself.

It stood on a mantle next to the skull that came along with him from London. It was the place he walked by most often. And every time he passed it he would smile because he knew she would be completely flustered and blush by his strange confession of affection. One he never got to admit to her.

And now he regretted it more then anything.

That was why he named the honey after her. Because she was the sweetest person he ever met, because he loved her.

The kettle whistled and Sherlock walked to the kitchen to make tea for himself, once more passing the honey jar labeled Beeloved Molly.

* * *

Sherlock opened the doors of the cottage and smiled at his guests.

Alice was turning four that weekend and John and Mary called to see if it was okay with him that they come to visit him. He was surprised to hear it was Alice's birthday wish. He wasn't sure she even knew who he was considering they only visited every few months.

But Alice Shirley Watson didn't forget the strange sad man who made honey, corrected her dad when he said the wrong name and talked to people only he could see and hear.

She liked talking to him because he never treated her like a child and answered honestly every question she ever asked. Even though sometimes her dad got angry at him for telling her things.

"Thank you for agreeing to celebrate Alice's Birthday here." Mary told him as she unpacked groceries she needed to bake a cake her for daughter. At John's suggestion she was going to make chocolate honey cake, using fresh honey from the hives Sherlock kept.

"I would never say no to her. I'm glad when you bring her to visit." Sherlock answered honestly before adding, "It gives me an opportunity to teach another person everything I know about bees."

Mary was still frowning when John entered the kitchen, few minutes after Sherlock went to join Alice in the back yard. It was cold outside but it didn't stop the little girl from enjoying her freedom in the large garden.

"What's wrong?" he asked right away.

"Scott."

John rolled his eyes, "Why do you insist calling him that? His name is Sherlock."

"I do it because I understand that sometimes you need to let go of the person who you are if you want to remain sane." Mary answered before sitting down on one of the chairs at the table and looked up at her husband, "Has Sherlock ever mentioned to you someone else was coming to visit him? Someone apart from us, Mrs. Hudson and Greg?"

"No." John answered before taking a seat opposite of her, "Why? Has he mentioned something to you?"

"Just minutes ago he said he was teaching someone everything he knows about bees. Someone apart from Alice."

Like she heard her mom calling her name Alice Watson ran in the kitchen and asked for juice. Mary stood up and reached for the glass to pour her some orange juice when John asker Alice if Sherlock ever mentioned friends who visit him.

The little girl nodded with a wide smile, "All the time. But only he can see Molly and Redbeard."

John gasped, not even noticing the sound of glass shattering as Mary dropped the glass she was holding. Alice on the other hand got startled by it and screamed, making her parents notice. Seconds later Sherlock came in the kitchen, not knowing what happened but concerned for the safety of the little girl.

He stopped when the two adults in the room looked at him in shock.

"You… You've been seeing Molly? She visits you?" John asked, shocked by the revelation.

Sherlock nodded in response and John instantly took out his phone and started to type.

"How long?" Mary asked, "When did it start?"

"Shortly after I was exiled."

John huffed, "For a genius you can be really dumb sometimes Sherlock."

"Scott." As usual his friend corrected him but before John managed to say anything else his phone beeped, announcing the new message arrived.

_Get him back to London. Now. –M. Holmes_

* * *

The diagnosis was the one John feared the most.

Brain tumor.

Mycroft pulled strings and had several of the best surgeons look at the MRI scans but they all said the same thing. It was inoperable. The tumor grew unnoticed and was now far too entangled with blood vessels. To try and remove it would be far too dangerous.

It was a death sentence.

Sherlock didn't say a word when they told him, when they admitted him to the Oncology ward or Saint Bartholomew hospital, when they discussed possible treatment with Mycroft while he was present.

John walked in the room minutes after the surgeons left; he went out to call Greg and Mrs. Hudson and to let them know Sherlock was in a hospital. He didn't give them any details. You don't share news like these over the phone.

"I made some calls, Shhh… Scott." Mycroft did his best to call his brother by the name he chose to use, "You don't need to go back to Sussex. The medical facilities there aren't good enough and-"

"I want to go back." Sherlock interrupted him.

"What?" Mycroft asked.

"Are you mad?!" John couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"I'm dying, Mycroft. There is nothing you or anyone else can do. So it doesn't matter where I am." Sherlock's voice was calm, "I can't escape death this time."

"I can't allow that." His brother wasn't hearing any of it, "Mommy will be upset if-"

"I'm not a child anymore Mycroft. So let me make my own choices. Let me die the way I want to this time." the mask was cracking and the calmness Sherlock was displaying till then was almost gone, "I'll call you every evening. When I don't call you'll know I'm dead."

* * *

It was raining that day, the sky was crying, grieving for the loss of a great man. A good man.

This time the coffin wasn't empty.

And William Sherlock Scott Holmes was laid to rest, surrounded by friends and family who were left to mourn, at the place he himself requested to be buried.

John looked at the headstones that stood side by side and smiled.

Sherlock found his way back to Molly.

* * *

**It's 3 am and I just finished writing this chapter and I'm crying. But I'll fix everything in the alternative epilogue. I promise.**


	3. Epilogue 2: To live

**Took me longer then expected to write this due to the fact it all went out of hands and became one of longest chapters I ever wrote. I don't know how that happened.**

**I hope it makes up for the angst in the previous chapters. Enjoy!**

* * *

Epilogue 2: To live

He was holding her hand like it was a lifeline, like it was the only thing that kept him from sinking into a sea of despair.

The sound of her heartbeat seemed more beautiful than any composition he ever made or played. She was alive and so was he and perhaps he will get the chance to tell her things he never allowed himself to admit.

He was miles away, back in the small town where he several years ago took out one of Moriarty's men, and just realized whom he missed the most, about whom he thought the most often, when his cover got blown. Six months. Mycroft was right. He lasted six months before they found out he wasn't who he supposed to be and attacked.

Sherlock squeezed Molly's hand tighter.

He didn't expect to survive but the old man found him in time. He kept him hidden till he got better and eventually introduced him with a group that smuggled him back to England.

He got back in time to see her lying in a hospital bed, hooked up to life-support machines, and withering away day by day.

"Molly, I…" Sherlock just began to speak when the machine next to him sounded to blare.

Seconds later several nurses and doctors ran inside and Sherlock was pushed to wait outside in the hallway. But not before he saw a straight green line on the monitor, not before he saw a nurse getting the defibrillator.

Not before he saw Molly dying just as he was about to tell her he loved her.

"CLEAR!"

Sherlock jumped and looked around the cold, dark room.

It took him few moments to get his bearings, to remember where he was. To recognize a soft hand resting inside his much larger one. To hear the steady sound of Molly's heartbeat and barely audible sound of her breathing.

He sat straighter in the uncomfortable plastic chair and took a deep, albeit shaky, breath.

It was just a nightmare.

And it wasn't over yet. Not for the world's consulting detective.

It continued when Mycroft entered the room, followed by two men. The serious look on the older Holmes brother's face was a clear indicator that the news he was bringing weren't good.

"I'm afraid you'll have to come with me, Sherlock."

* * *

Sherlock wasn't aware he was sitting on the same chair Charles Augustus Magnussen sat on during his hearing. He wasn't aware the same people who once decided that a blackmailer was innocent of charges brought against him were now deciding on the faith of the man who killed him.

And even if he knew he wouldn't care. All Sherlock wanted was to be allowed to return to Molly's side. They could confine him to the facility, for all he cared.

But that was not the case.

It was Lady Smallwood, the woman whose husband committed suicide after his letters to a previous love became public, who informed Sherlock of their verdict.

"We can't under any circumstances guarantee your safety if you are sent to jail. That was why you were sent on a mission with MI6, a mission that was classified as extremely risky. The fact you survived and managed to return to England, under highly suspicious circumstances, can only be seen as a miracle. We are still trying to get information as to how and why your death got confirmed when you are in fact alive." Lady Smallwood took a deep breath and gave Sherlock a small smile, "As far as we are concerned you have done what you were sent to do. You have completed your punishment. But unfortunately the law must be obeyed and we can not just let you walk away a free man. Sherlock Holmes, you are hereby sentenced to five years of house arrest that must be spent outside of London."

Sherlock looked shocked by the sentence. Not because he was just ordered to spend five year bound to a single place and not allowed to leave it, or because it's only five years when he without a doubt deserved much longer sentence.

It was the fact he wasn't allowed to stay in London.

It was Mycroft who eventually gave him an explanation behind that decision.

"They are covering for themselves, Sherlock." The older Holmes brother was currently behind a wheel of a car and driving both of them to a new location in Sussex where Sherlock will spend next five years of his life.

"That is ridiculous." Sherlock protested.

"You killed a man." Mycroft calmly pointed out making his brother roll his eyes, "House arrest was a best option, Sherlock. But if you remained in London you would have been swamped with reporters, for starters. Also, the crime rate in London is much higher then in-"

"Exactly!" Sherlock yelled, startling his older sibling who scoffed at him. Mycroft Holmes didn't appreciate being interrupted, "I'll get bored in… wherever you are driving me to. My brain needs riddles, needs cases. Otherwise it will start to rot."

"Must you always be so overdramatic?" Mycroft sighed, "It was my suggestion, brother dear. I know you better than anyone, I know if you remained in London you would leave your flat to go on a case. That would mean you disobeyed and didn't remain in house arrest like you should which could result in you being sent to complete your sentence in jail. And believe me, there are some who are willing to take a chance of you getting hurt, just to see you behind bars. Magnussen may have had many important people in his hands due to blackmail material, but he also had friends who didn't mind at all what he was doing because it suited them quite well to see someone destroyed politically."

"Fine." Sherlock mumbled like a little child, "And what am I supposed to do while I'm in… East Dean?"

Mycroft glanced at his younger brother and saw him scowl at the dashboard. He really was such a child sometimes.

"The house arrest doesn't mean you can't go into the garden, Sherlock?"

"So I'm supposed to grow vegetables?"

"Actually I was going to say you can try your luck with beekeeping, but if it's vegetables you want that can be arranged."

Sherlock's head snapped in his brother's direction so fast Mycroft was worried he might break something.

"There are beehives there?"

"Seven. Any other questions? Complains?"

"Will I be allowed to leave the property and visit Molly?" Sherlock finally asked the question that bothered him the whole time. He already knew what the answer would be but couldn't help himself. They didn't even allow him to go and see her again after he was taken away from the facility.

Once again he didn't say goodbye to her before he left.

Mycroft sighed, he knew that question was coming sooner or later, "No."

* * *

It was a week after he arrived at the cottage in East Dean that a sound of several vehicles stopping in front of his current residence made Sherlock pause before exiting through the back door. He planed to check the hives like he did every morning but it seemed something was going on in front.

The sound of front doors opening got him reach for a fireplace poker, but Mycroft's voice that soon followed stopped him. It would be a bit not good if he hit his brother over the head.

It would upset mommy.

"Come right through here." He could hear Mycroft say and frowned.

One of more annoying stipulations was a fact he can't receive visitors all the time. Sherlock wasn't sure who made that decision or why, but it irritated him. Before he wouldn't mind being alone but human contact became important to him in the past years. Luckily he was given a phone to use and he could keep in contact with those he deemed most important to him.

And also Mycroft.

His brother's importance was exclusively linked to the fact he visited Molly every few days and always had new information. Not that there was anything to report about. Her state hasn't changed since the day she was admitted.

When Sherlock asked his brother during their last conversation why he still visited Molly Mycroft surprised him by answering it was because she mattered.

Sherlock looked towards the door just as his brother entered the sitting room, "What brings you here, Mycroft? Already missing your little brother? Why, you only saw me last week."

Mycroft rolled his eyes on Sherlock's childishness before answering, "I pulled some strings to get you a flat mate."

"Someone to take care of me, no doubt. Despite what everyone thinks I can take care of myself, Mycroft!" Sherlock was displeased and walked past his brother towards the room on the end of the hallway, right next to his own.

It was completely empty when he arrived and back then Mycroft said the furniture was to be delivered for it. He didn't even suspect at the time that someone else that supposed to live here will arrive with the furniture. That made no sense, he was allowed visitors but it was alright for someone to live with him?

"It's not what you think, Sherlock!" The British government called after him, "Leave them alone so they can arrange everything!"

"Arrange what?" Sherlock snapped at his brother and opened the door.

Instead of handymen he saw technicians, instead of a normal wooden bed like in his own room a hospital bed was being put together. Where he expected to see a bedside table was a heart monitor.

All in all it didn't look like a regular bedroom. It looked like a hospital room.

Sherlock turned towards his brother, his face expression revealing his confusion but in his eyes Mycroft could see a glimpse of hope.

"Not someone to take care of you. Someone for you to take care of. Once everything is set up Molly Hooper will be brought to stay here with you."

Sherlock couldn't believe what he was hearing. Quickly he shut the door to allow the technicians to work at peace and walked to the kitchen to make tea. He was rather confused.

"I wasn't aware coma patients can be released to home care." He stated.

"Usually they can't." Mycroft clarified, "But Miss Hooper is stable, her breathing, heartbeat, even her blood sugar. She still requires care but not as extensive as some patients. You will be able to do most of the things. Once a day a nurse will arrive to take care of the rest; like washing her and changing the catheter bag. I-"

"Thank you, Mycroft."

It was the first time that Mycroft Holmes wasn't annoyed by his brother interrupting him. He was smart, smarter then Sherlock, and could read the consulting detective well. But right now even someone like John Watson would be able to see how grateful Sherlock was that won't be kept away from his Molly.

* * *

"CLEAR!"

Sherlock sat up in his bed, breathing heavily and covered in sweat. Seconds later he threw the covers off and rushed to the bedroom right next to his own, almost tripping over his own feet in an attempt to get to her faster. His Molly.

She was still in a coma, still unresponsive to his pleads to wake up.

The room changed drastically in the past four months since she was transported to the cottage, it was still plain write but now had decorations and pictures on the walls, colorful knick-knacks on a chest of drawers Mycroft had delivered on Sherlock's insistence. And when she came to visit him last month Mrs. Hudson brought a lovely colorful crochet quilt that was now resting over a dull cream blanket that kept Molly warm.

And tomorrow he will once more get some wild flowers that grew on the far edge of the garden and placed them in a vase.

Right now he needed to be close to her.

Pulling back the cover carefully, Sherlock lay down next to Molly on a wide hospital bed and covered both of them again. He did that sometimes, after the nightmare of her dying wakes him up. In those nights he needed to be close to her, to hear her heartbeat and soft breathing, otherwise he will stay awake till morning afraid he would dream of her death again.

And still, Molly remained unresponsive.

* * *

He was always interested in bees and imagined keeping them once he got tired of living in London and chasing criminals. When that retirement came sooner then expected Sherlock decided to spend the free time surrounded by beehives and making honey. And after few hours outside he would go to Molly's room and tell her everything he did that day.

And then one day he informed her he managed to collect enough honey to fill seven jars. And he gave it her name.

He sent the first jar to John and Mary for their wedding anniversary. Neither of them were surprised at the hand-written label and later texted him that it was delicious.

Second was sent to his parents. Mr. and Mrs. Holmes were glad their son was alive and hoped his friend woke up soon. Because according to their older son Molly Hooper may be a bit more then a friend after all.

Third arrived at Mycroft's address. He tried to resist the temptation but ended up emptying half the jar for breakfast. The sweet honey went so well with scones.

Mrs. Hudson received the forth one. Instantly she took a cookbook from the shelf and looked for the most delicious honey cake receipt she would bake that evening.

Greg Lestrade received the fifth one in a package with his name written correctly. He took it with him when he went to work the next day and displayed it proudly in his office like it was his most precious award. And hours later, after solving a rough case, he rewarded himself with some delicious donuts with honey drizzled over it. It was sticky but scrumptious.

Sixth traveled the longest and eventually reached the old man that months ago saved Sherlock's life and kept him safe until he was healthy enough to return to England. It was the only way he knew how to thank Sherlock for avenging his son's death by killing one of Moriarty's men that terrorized the small town. When he received the jar of honey he was surprised until he read the name on the label. It was a name his guest mentioned many times, always with a small smile. He was glad to see the strange Englishman returned home safely.

The seventh jar, the last one of the first batch, Sherlock Holmes kept for himself.

And when Molly wakes up he will made her breakfast in bed.

* * *

It happened by accident one day.

Sherlock was out in the garden all morning, checking the hives, before going in to get something to eat. He didn't eat regularly despite now not being on a case but some days he simply wasn't hungry. And since he skipped meals in the last two days he didn't even take off his beekeeping suit like he always did. Instead he just took off the hood and left it on the counter before raiding the fridge.

After making few simple and rather dry sandwiches Sherlock followed his usual schedule and took his plate to Molly's room to eat. It was his way of two of them having a meal together. He hated it, hated seeing her so unresponsive, but knew there was nothing he could do.

It took him little over ten minutes to finish his mangy meal before he leaned down to kiss Molly's forehead like he usually did.

For someone who constantly prided himself by saying he observed, and didn't just see, Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, failed to observe a single bee that remained in a fold of his protective suit until he leaned over the comatose woman. Then the hardworking insect fall out and landed next to Molly's throat.

Sherlock just opened the room door when Molly's heart monitor pinged when her heartbeat spiked.

Seconds later he was by her side again, this time noticing the stray insect lying on the pillow and a small dark stinger embedded in Molly's throat. Instantly he used his knowledge of honey bees and rushed to the kitchen to get a blunt butter knife to scrap stinger out, and made a paste of backing soda and water that should help to keep the swelling down.

It took him less then two minutes to return in the bedroom and place the cup with just made paste on the cabinet next to the bed and turn towards Molly, the butter knife held firmly in his hand.

But the firm grip didn't last long.

A metallic clung echoed through the room after Sherlock dropped the utensil in shock of the beautiful sight in front of him.

The sight of Molly's deep brown eyes looking back at him.

* * *

When Mycroft came to see them few days after his brother's frantic phone call about Molly being awake he found his younger sibling standing in front of the stove, actually cooking for once. Only his long experience in dealing with sensitive matters prevented a loud argument that surely would have followed if he pointed out exactly how ridiculous Sherlock looked with an apron.

Long experience and Molly Hooper who just appeared on the glass doors that led to the garden.

She was forced to use the wheelchair for the time being, until her strength returned, but already she looked much healthier then she did the last time he saw her. A wide smile that appeared on her face after she saw him made usually stoic Mycroft smile back.

"Don't encourage him, Molly." Sherlock grumbled, without even looking away from the saucepan in front of him, "Mycroft might start thinking you actually like him."

Deciding to take the bait the older Holmes brother asked, "Has it occurred to you that she might already like me?"

Sherlock merely snorted in response and turned off the stove, before he took off the ridiculous apron and shoved it in the drawer where he first found it.

"How are you, Mycroft?" Molly asked kindly.

Both of them ignored the big child that rolled his eyes before taking a seat in his favorite armchair in the cottage. It wasn't nearly as comfortable as the one back in Baker Street but he was willing to put up with this inferior specimen.

"I'm well, thank you for asking." Mycroft answered politely, once more ignoring his brother's childish behavior, before adding, "And because I wish for you to feel well too I thought it would be wise to talk to someone about why you have decided to harm yourself in the way you have."

Molly's smile vanished, like blown away by a strong wind, and tears appeared in her eyes, "My reasons haven't changed from those I gave you for not attending the funeral."

Sherlock's eyes moved from his brother, to his pathologist, and back. He watched their silent conversation for a while before sighing.

He learned after returning that Molly wasn't at his funeral but he never learned why. A part of him, a sentimental part whose existence he denied for years, wished it was because she sensed he was still alive. But the more logical part of him knew that even if feelings were involved, and considering this was Molly they were talking about they were, those feelings weren't those he hoped.

* * *

A heavy rainfall surprised everyone that evening and on Molly's insisting Mycroft agreed to stay in the cottage over night instead of driving back to London. After a quick call to Anthea who cleared his schedule for the morning he joined his brother and Molly in the sitting room.

The TV was on and Molly was currently watching a rerun of Doctor Who with Sherlock running a commentary next to her.

Mycroft could see Molly was amused by it and tried not to smile while she was shushing the consulting detective who then started to complain about the absurdity of the show even louder, not understanding that was her goal.

He was pleased to see the woman in good spirits after everything that happened. Someone as kind and friendly as Molly Hooper deserved all the happiness of the world. She was willing to sacrifice her career and possibly even her life to save Sherlock when Moriarty threatened those he held most dear, and she did it without expecting anything in return for herself.

Mycroft took a seat in the armchair on Molly's other side and focused on the strange tv show. After watching it for only several minutes he understood why Sherlock was complaining about it being ridiculous. That odd shaped machine was threatening a man and his companion with a whisk and a plunger.

"Is there nothing else to watch?" he asked after few more minutes.

"Would you rather play Operation?" Sherlock asked him with a grin and Molly looked at the younger Holmes brother like he was insane. She wasn't all that wrong in that assessment, if one asks Mycroft.

"Really?" she asked, completely shocked.

"I win every time." Sherlock said proudly before throwing his brother a challenging look.

Needless to say ten minutes later the TV was turned off and Molly was laughing while watching two brothers sweat over a children's game.

* * *

That night Mycroft slept in Molly's room, now devoid of all the hospital machines and the bed. Instead a new wooden bed was in its place, the colorful quilt that Mrs. Hudson brought for Molly still on top of the blanket.

While he was in her room, on Sherlock's insisting, Molly slept in his room. It made little sense since Mycroft thought he could have just slept in his brother's room instead, but the consulting detective insisted for some reason.

Molly learned the reason when Sherlock appeared in his bedroom dressed in pajama bottoms and a tea shirt, with his, now rather old silk blue dressing gown, billowing behind him as he opened the window slightly to let fresh air in before he lay down on the bed Molly already occupied.

He ignored her shocked look and settled on the firm mattress, and only when he was comfortable did he looked in her direction.

"I thought you would stay in the sitting room. You said you didn't plan to sleep much tonight."

"I don't. I plan to talk, or rather to listen." He responded.

Molly frowned, "What?"

"You need to talk to someone about that happened. I have to admit Mycroft was right about that. And since I am in a way responsible for what happened it makes sense that I am the one you talk to."

"How is occurred to you that I don't want to talk about it?"

"Yes." He answered before adding, "But I'm hoping you might do it anyway. I want to help you in any way I can, I want to know what I did wrong so I don't do it again. Molly?"

Molly sniffed and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand before she took a deep breath, "I was upset. And jealous. I understood why you did it, but I hated you for it. Because you were sentenced to death for it. For John."

Sherlock took her hand in his and squeezed lightly, "He's my friend."

"And you made a vow to be there for him. And you were. And…"

"Molly?"

"I don't know how to say it and not sound awful." She admitted.

"I would never consider you to be awful. You are the kindest person I ever met."

"But that's not enough." She said in a flat voice that surprised Sherlock, "I'm kind, I'm nice, I'm cheerful… I count… I matter… those are just empty words."

"They aren't." Sherlock insisted.

"They are. Because you may have said them but you never proved they were true."

After several minutes of silence Sherlock sighed and asked, "What do you want me to do?"

"Don't do something like that again." Molly answered, her head bowed to prevent Sherlock from seeing the tears that fell down her face. But he was a smart man, he noticed despite her attempt to hide them.

He reached and wrapped a hand around Molly's shoulder slowly, afraid he would startle her and she would pull away as a result. But she never did. Instead she leaned closer and wrapped her hands around his torso, hiding her face between his shoulder and neck.

"I made a promise to you… the day I returned and found you in a coma. I promised that after killing and dying for John I would spend the rest of my life living for you. And I will." He murmured to her, wrapping his arms around her small body and pulling her closer to his warmth.

"We both know that if the history repeats itself you would do it all over again. You would kill for John and you would do it without considering the consequences. I know I'm being stupid saying this, because it's obvious John would come before anyone else, but I wish that just for once you…"

"I?"

"It's nothing." Molly said and tried to pull back but Sherlock wouldn't allow it. He kept his arms around her and kissed the top of her head, startling the weeping woman.

"Tell me. Please."

"I wish… I've known you for seven years now and I loved you for just as long." Molly took a deep breath, she just admitted to him what he probably already knew but it didn't made it any easier for her, "I felt like you only noticed me when you needed something from me. Other times I was invisible. And then you went and killed a man for John-"

"I didn't-"

"No, Sherlock. Don't interrupt me now. Please." She said sniffing, "It was difficult for me to see you doing all those things for someone else when I desperately wished you would do something, anything really, for me. I would have settled for a coffee, or you cleaning the mess you made in the lab, or…" Molly wiped the tears that fell down hew face anew, "Or for you to stop calling me John after I helped you with something."

"I never called you John." Sherlock frowned.

"You did. So many times." Molly corrected him, her eyes focused on the pattern on the cover, so she never saw the sad smile that appeared on Sherlock's face. He didn't even realize he was doing that. He never meant to hurt her.

"Is that why you…" he couldn't complete the sentence, couldn't say it.

"I started to grieve for you the moment you left. Because I knew you wouldn't be coming back. You were already as good as dead. And then one evening while I was coming home from work I saw John and Mary in a restaurant with some friend. They were laughing and having a good time and I got so angry. Because they didn't look at all affected by your imminent death, the six months were almost up, and they were enjoying themselves. The man you killed for and a woman that almost killed you."

Sherlock was silent for several minutes, only watching Molly as she struggled to hold back the tears that were threatening to fall again. He longed to hold her close but could see she wouldn't welcome it at the moment. She didn't want empty gestures. She needed reassurance.

"I wish I could say I would never do anything like it again, but I can't. There will always be those who will try to harm me through those closest to me. But don't think for a second I wouldn't do for you what I did for John. Because I would. You matter to me, Molly. You are the person who matters the most."

"That was over a three years ago." She pointed out.

"No, Molly. Always."

He surprised her in that moment by leaning towards her and kissing her softly. Not on the cheek like on that damn Christmas party or after his return as he wished her good luck.

A wide smile spread on Molly's face. It may have been a simple kiss but her lips still tingled.

* * *

Next day, before he left for London, Mycroft was stopped by his brother, "Thank you." Was all Sherlock said after his older brother turned back towards him.

"For what?"

"For somehow managing for Molly to be allowed to stay with me. I was under impression no one would be allowed to remain for longer period of time."

Mycroft smiled slightly, "Doctor Hooper suffered from severe depression and tried to commit suicide. It would be irresponsible to force her to leave because no one can say how she would react to that." A small smile turned to a grin; one Sherlock never saw on his brother before, "I merely pointed out that forcing her to leave could cause her to relapse."

"Relapse?"

"It made everything sound more severe and served the cause." Mycroft explained, "She saved your life, Sherlock. I take that very seriously. I owe her a debt. And also I find her to be interesting."

"I thought you don't do _friends_." Sherlock grumbled.

"I don't." Mycroft said seriously, "But then again Molly Hooper isn't exactly a friend. She has a potential of becoming a family member. Does she not?"

Sherlock glared at his brother before deadpanning, "I have to check the hives and you need to return to London for an important meeting or two so… goodbye."

Mycroft stood in front of the cottage and observed with amusement as his brother turned on his heel and entered the house before slamming the door behind himself. It was such childish behavior. But he was used to it after so many years. Sherlock was obviously never going to change.

But his reaction was very telling. Mycroft had to smile as he sat in the driver's seat and started the car. Mommy will be pleased to hear her younger son just might give her those grandchildren she's been pestering them about for almost a decade now.

* * *

All lives have high points and low points.

And the occasion that had Molly Hooper laugh of joy and hug Sherlock tighter then ever before was the first Christmas they spent together in the cottage in East Dean.

The fire burnt in the fireplace giving the room a soft glow, the tree was skillfully decorated and little details around the sitting room gave it that perfect festive look. And the highlights were the small gifts placed under the tree that patiently waited to be opened. Some longer then others.

On Sherlock's request Mycroft went to 221B Baker Street and brought a gift in red wrapping paper that he received from Molly years ago but never opened. He regretted it now, being so rude to her, that he didn't even bothered to open the gift she selected, carefully wrapped and brought to the party John organized.

He never even told her she looked beautiful that night.

But a lot has changed in the past five months since Molly woke up from coma. Sherlock no longer bothered to hide she meant the world to him and he tried to show it to her every single day. He was the picture perfect boyfriend.

And that freaked Molly out.

It was only after Sherlock promised that he wouldn't change, that he would remain the arrogant clot he always was that she stopped worrying.

So when he actually hander her a gift for Christmas she observed him suspiciously. Earlier that week when Mycroft came to see them she heard Sherlock asked his brother if he brought it and she wasn't sure what to think. She started to gently shake the rather heavy gift but Sherlock stopped her.

"Just open it."

Molly gave him a smile and pulled on the large yellow bow, similar to the one she had in her hair for John and Mary's wedding, until it untied. Then she carefully pealed the layer of red wrapping paper and saw a basic brown cardboard box with no logo underneath. So it wasn't something store-bought.

She looked at Sherlock, hoping he would give her some kind of hint, but he remained silent and simply watched her. She didn't know how to interpret the glint in his eyes.

So she lifted the lid and looked inside, only to see it was a jar, like the ones in the pantry. Right away she came to a conclusion he had given her an organ in Formaldehyde.

But as she took it out of the box she noticed the content wasn't what she expected it to be. It was honey Sherlock made, pure homemade honey that had beautiful clear color.

Golden.

Just like the ring hanging on the thread around the jar's neck.

Molly gasped and almost dropped her gift but Sherlock reached and took it from her. He skillfully untied the lace thread and took the ring from it before presenting it to the woman that stole the heart he denied of having for so long.

"I know it is sudden. And I know I have a lot to make up for. But I hope that won't deter you from agreeing to become my wife. Will you marry me?"

Molly felt tears forming and did nothing to stop them from falling. She gave Sherlock a wide smile before whispering, "Yes."

* * *

The second Christmas they spent in the company of family and friends who came to celebrate with them and witness two people who loved each other very much get married in a small ceremony performed in village church, thanks to Mycroft who got permission for Sherlock to leave the cottage for this extremely special occasion.

Molly was smiling the entire time, not truly believing it was really happening, but unable to deny it was Sherlock who stood in front of the altar waiting for her.

As expected it was John who was his best man.

John who still didn't know the whole truth behind Molly's actions but on Sherlock's insisting she and John spent several hours behind closed doors of her former room talking. Mary tired to get information out of Sherlock but he refused to tell her anything. Only said John would explain it all to her.

And he did, once they returned to their home in London. Any Mary cried, wishing she reached out to Molly after Sherlock got sent to exile. But at the time she was far too preoccupied with her pregnancy and then her newborn daughter that she didn't even spent a second considering how a person who loved Sherlock Holmes more then anyone else must be feeling. She felt guilty because it was her secret that Sherlock was protecting when he killed Magnussen.

It was only a long phone call to Molly that managed to calm her down properly. Hearing that the kind woman held no grudge against her for all the wrongs she did. Hearing Molly laugh and say things turned out well in the end and she was happy.

That happiness lasted a year.

* * *

The lowest point of their stay in the cottage in East Dean happened on their third Christmas.

Molly was in the kitchen baking and listening to beautiful sounds of Sherlock playing his violin, with the company of the orchestra on the TV. It was one of the annual concerts that she loved listening and today they sounded better then ever.

She had a feeling this year Christmas celebration would be special. She had a gift for Sherlock, one that would elate him.

But the bliss was interrupted when the image suddenly distorted and a face appeared on a screen. A face of a dead man.

Molly dropped the decorating bag she was holding causing the icing to splat all across the clean white floor.

Sherlock too reacted. He instantly stopped playing and dropped the violin on the couch next to himself before reaching for his cell phone on the coffee table. He needed to call Mycroft. He needed to know what was going on. Why was Moriary on the TV? How is it possible that he was right there, asking 'did you miss me?', when the psychopath died years ago on the roof of Saint Bartholomew hospital?

But in that moment the lights in the house all turned off at the same time.

Molly gasped and covered her mouth with both hands. She was terrified. That was what happened in all those horror movies she watched while in university. This was when the serial killer appeared.

"Molly?" Sherlock whispered and slowly made his way in the darkness towards where she last stood but thought better and moved in the direction of the fireplace to ignite the logs that were there.

"I'm right here." She whispered back as the soft glow illuminated the sitting room and adjacent kitchen.

"So am I." An unknown voice suddenly spoke startling them both.

Sherlock didn't even manage to turn towards the intruder when a blow to the head surprised him and knocked him out. Molly instantly screamed seeing her husband lying on the floor in front of the fireplace, the light of the fire making it possible to see the blood at the back of his head, marring his beautiful curls.

She didn't recognize the intruder, the tall blond man who now focused on her. Right away she tried to move away from him but only managed to make few steps, her legs just weren't listening. And he walked closer, a wide grin appearing on his face.

"Jim talked about you. Said you were a harmless mouse." His grin widened before he added, "I'm going to enjoy hearing you squeak as I kill you."

But there was one thing Sebastian Moran, Jim Moriarty's right hand man, wasn't counting on. One unexpected thing in the otherwise perfect plan.

The cake icing on the floor made the tiles rather slippery so when he stepped on a large glob he momentarily lost his balance which was everything Molly needed to fight back.

She grabbed a jar of honey from the counter and hit him in the head as hard as she could. The glass didn't break but it knocked him out. And just seconds after his body hit the cold floor Sherlock's cell phone started to ring, making Molly almost jump out of her skin.

She rushed to get it and was relived to see the caller was Mycroft.

He didn't even manage to say a single word before she started to speak, "You need to sent an ambulance and the police. A man appeared in the cottage just after the power went out and knocked Sherlock out. I'm checking Sherlock just now and he's breathing but has a large gash at the back of his head. I don't know who the bloke is but he knew Moriarty and I knocked him out."

"_Sorry?"_ she could hear her brother-in-law ask.

"He slipped on the icing on the floor and I hit him with a jar of honey. Now send someone! He might wake up soon!"

"_They are already on their way Miss Hoo… Mrs. Holmes."_

* * *

Sherlock regained consciousness in the ambulance but the paramedics didn't want to take any chances. The blow like the one he received could cause serious injury and he required an MRI so they were driving him to a hospital in Eastbourne.

Molly was with him, of course, to make sure he doesn't bully the doctors into allowing him to leave before they say he can leave. She knew him too well and was certain that was exactly what he would do.

"You'll be fine." She comforted him.

Sherlock frowned, "Of course I will. I feel fine. This all is completely unnecessarily, Molly."

"Humor me." she said, looking him directly in the eyes.

It was their silent conversation that caused the consulting detective to sigh and nod. He would do what she asked of him and go through a bunch of scans he clearly didn't need, and he won't complain in the process, because he could see worry in his wife's eyes. And because he knew that if she was the one lying on the stretcher he would want the doctors to check every inch of her body to make sure she was well.

An hour later, while Molly was sitting in the empty waiting room, the door opened and John and Mary walked in, followed by Mycroft. The British government looked agitated.

"I don't know how he managed to locate you. Sherlock's house arrest wasn't a well known thing and only a small group of people knew where he was staying." He said before sitting on the plastic chair opposite of his sister-in-law.

"I wish I could give you the answers, I really do." Molly was distressed, "Moriarty showed up on the screen and seconds later the lights went out. Sherlock just managed to light the fire when he showed up from the direction of the bedroom and hit Sherlock over the head before going after me. It was crazy luck that I dropped the decorating bag earlier and he slipped on the icing that was all over the floor."

Mary, who was sitting next to Molly, wrapped her hand around the shaking woman's shoulders. John, who took a seat on Molly's other side took her hand and gave it a soft squeeze. They were all there for her.

"And then you knocked him out." John said with a small smile, "If I understood it correctly."

Molly nodded silently and Mary giggled, "He was taken out by icing and a jar of honey. How embarrassing."

John snorted and Mycroft merely rolled his eyes.

"He's going to be fine, right?" Molly asked, not pointing the question to anyone particular and looking at her lap where her right hand rested. Her left one was still being held in John's larger one. Soon her other hand was covered as well and she looked up at her brother-in-law. He wasn't much for public displays of affection, any affection, so him showing that he cared was rather strange.

"You should know by now how thick Sherlock's skull is. I am confident he will be perfectly fine."

But when the doctor walked in the waiting room ten minutes later he wasn't bringing good news they were hoping for.

The scan showed a tumor.

When Molly entered Sherlock's hospital room she noticed he looked distressed. Someone else might have missed the small signs but she knew him better then she knew herself by now. He was afraid.

"The doctor told you." He said shortly and Molly nodded.

"Mycroft it outside right now, talking to him and the main neurologist, discussing details. John is there too. And Mary."

"They want to operate. Poke around my brain." Sherlock suddenly sounded angry, "I don't want anyone poking around my brain. I don't want them-"

"No one will poke around your brain, Sherlock." Molly took his hand in both hers and kissed his fingers, "They will only remove the tumor. You will still be a genius when the operation is done."

"And if they disturb something up there?"

"I'll still love you. And I won't be the only one, you know." Molly answered with a kind smile.

"Are you referring to the fact you are pregnant?" Sherlock casually asked making his wife stutter for a moment before she scoffed at him.

"I should have known you would figure it out. I don't know what I was thinking believing I could surprise you. What do you think about a name Bartholomew?"

* * *

When he eventually returned to London, and 221B Baker Street, five years later Sherlock Holmes was a different man then the one that left into exile never to return.

He was no longer just a great man, he was now a good man. He was a good husband and a good father.

He killed. He died. And now he would live.


End file.
